


Give Battle in Vain

by Daegaer



Series: For Art's Sake [40]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: 1920s, AU, Artists, Double Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2020-01-25 22:19:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18583726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: Crawford and his short-tempered model.





	Give Battle in Vain

**Author's Note:**

> Seven double-drabbles, written from 12th-17th March.

_Red_

Schuldig leans against the doorpost, his face solemn, his calm eyes cast upwards to a cold, unfeeling Heaven. In my sketchbook his placid appearance is not disturbed by the arrows in his side and thighs. My color notes indicate the brightest of scarlet for the blood, a more natural red to brighten his cheeks. The cloth draped around his hips will be white as snow. At least he has stopped scratching beneath it and complaining that it itches.

“I need to stretch,” he says, and brings his hands from behind him, reaching high above his head. “Maybe you should actually tie me up,” he says, “I think Williamson would like that.” He sniggers. “I _know_ he’d like it.”

I scowl at the sketches. I imagine arrows going through Williamson’s body, rather than piercing Schuldig’s form. I can’t afford not to paint this; Williamson will display it openly for all his guests to see; it can help make my reputation. I hate the thought of owing him such a thing, but must bear it.

In the sketches, St Sebastian bears his martyrdom stoically, bleeding and bruised. Across the room Schuldig is still laughing, his torso pale and thankfully unmarked.

* * *

_Orange_

I consider the mix of paints carefully, thinking about the exact shades. Flame-bright, I think, a mélange of coppery-orange, with gold where the sunlight catches it. Shadowed with reddish-brown. 

Schuldig moves, and the light gleams on his hair in a different way. He yawns, and leans back against me, the smoke from his cigarette spiraling upward through a ray of light.

"You'd better be thinking of where you're taking me for lunch," he says, turning his head so he can look at me.

"What else would I be thinking?" I ask, allowing him to arrange my arms about him. 

He eels round and puts his lips to mine.

"Something like that," he says against my mouth, and kisses me again.

His skin is warmly smooth under my hands, the muscles in his back and arms firm. He has quite defined arms, I think as he tightens them about me. Interesting to draw.

The light glinting on his hair gives a halo of brightness about his head; he grins into my face.

"I _could_ let you take me to lunch a different day, and we could stay here."

I bury my hands in his bright hair and pull him closer again.

* * *

_Yellow_

 

I look in some dissatisfaction through Plekhanov's notebook. I cannot deny the strength of his sketches and designs. His notes are copious and neatly written. I cannot understand his art at all, any more than I can read his Cyrillic script. It is disheartening to think I am not in touch with the art of the modern world.

Plekhanov is thumbing through one of my books, occasionally commenting to the twins perched on either side of him. I am embarrassed by the casual intimacy they so clearly share.

"You should do some abstract work, Crawford," he says. "Don't become hidebound."

The girls whisper to each other, looking at a perfectly sedate drawing of Schuldig leaning against a railing, his gaze distant and pensive. One of them murmurs in Plekhanov's ear.

"You never draw anyone else?" Plekhanov says. "Tanya wants to know."

I shrug, and smile as if I had not noticed my own work. "Would she like me to draw her?" 

"Not naked," he says, an edge under his smile.

 _How can the three of them not care what people say?_ I think. I could never be so bold.

I look at the drawing of Schuldig and curse my cowardice.

* * *

_Green_

 

"I can't come on Thursday," Schuldig says, tying his laces. "I'll be back on Friday."

"What pressing engagement do you have?" I ask.

He doesn't say anything, then heaves an irritated sigh. "Williamson has a party on Wednesday night. I'll be tired the next day, and you never like to see me afterwards anyway."

"I always like seeing you when you're hungover," I say, lightly I hope. I imagine throttling Williamson, or stepping in when he attempts some vileness. I could hit him. Schuldig looks at me as if he knows quite well what I'm thinking.

"Friday," he says. Then he pauses, and looks anywhere, it seems, but at my face. "He asked if you'd like to come. I'll tell him you're busy."

"Maybe I will," I say, to see what he will say.

He scowls at me. "You set one fucking step in there and that's the last you'll fucking see of me."

"I forgot I'm no longer wealthy enough to keep your full attention," I snap, stung.

He mutters something in German that sounds blasphemous. "You wouldn't like it," he says at last. "Just - I'll see you on Friday."

I nod, stiffly. I wish Williamson would just die.

* * *

_Blue_

 

 _Some real ground lapis_ , I think, _like medieval artists used; that's what I need_. I swallow the half-made laugh at that, for it would be entirely the wrong shade and I am simply trying to distract myself.

"What's so funny?" Schuldig says, taking a brief opportunity to stretch. He goes back into the pose smoothly.

"I was just wondering what shade to classify your eyes as," I say quickly, to distract him too.

"Blue," he says, as if humouring a very old relative. "Get some new fucking glasses." 

"Ah, but blue like hyacinths? Like the ocean? Like your language?"

"Cerulean," he says, and grins. "See? I can remember your paint names."

"Not the right shade," I say. "I have to mix the proper one myself, every time."

"Like a real artist?" he says, enjoying his own joke. 

"Stop fidgeting. And try to look a little more martyred. Sebastian is calmly accepting death and the certainty of heaven, not mild indigestion."

"Sky-blue," Schuldig says, his eyes raised heavenwards, his face placid, saintly. "It's what I was always told as a child."

"Sky-blue," I agree.

Neither one of us has mentioned the marks in darker purpling blue across his ribs and thighs.

* * *

_Indigo_

 

The view from Primrose Hill is beautiful, though harder to see as the night draws in. Working here today was a good idea, and the chance to combine it with a late-summer picnic made it perfect. Beside me Schuldig shivers a little, and pulls his jacket on.

"It's almost autumn," he says, looking up at the darkening sky. "It's chillier at night." He warms himself by drinking straight from the bottle of wine.

"I did bring glasses."

"They're full of flies by now. You know all this used to be Henry VIII's private hunting ground?"

"I have read a _little_ about the city I live in, yes."

He laughs. "I bet Silvia would paint him hunting monsters. Or being hunted by them."

I bend close to the page to quickly sketch an old, fat king running from a decidedly Welsh-looking dragon. Schuldig grins at it. He leans against me, handing over the bottle.

"So here we are, all alone, in the dark. Should I be worried?"

I'm glad it's his usual mocking tone, not the coquettish one I have heard him use to Williamson.

"Should _I?_ " I say.

He looks around quickly and kisses me under the indigo night sky.

* * *

_Violet_

 

"If Sebastian was Roman, maybe I should be wearing a toga," Schuldig says, draping the fabric for his loincloth about himself.

"The accepted portrayal of Sebastian is in his underwear, as a pincushion," I say, lighting a cigarette. "Don't think you're getting out of wearing that so easily."

"It's fucking itchy and make my balls too hot," he grouses. "Don't you have anything lighter?"

"The Romans wore wool a lot," I say.

"I don't think historical accuracy is the point of this painting," he says. "He just wants something barely acceptable for public view. Come on, paint me in an artistically draped toga, with a nice purple stripe down the edge."

"Cheer up, maybe next you'll be wanted as a naughty bishop lifting up your violet robes."

"Your imagination is improving," he says, winding the cloth about his hips. "Too much of the colour would clash with my hair, don't you think?"

"It would suit you; I think you can carry anything off," I say, and feel a ridiculous blush in my cheeks.

He looks at me, and then smiles so sweetly that I cannot help but respond.

Though not traditional, the finished picture shows violets blooming around Sebastian's feet.


End file.
